


Grandmother's House

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dogs, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: A while after Sherrinford, Sherlock has left London behind. Mycroft eventually goes to check on him, and it turns out to be a good idea.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 40
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> Inspired both by the awesome story "Where the bees are" from my bestie SlytherinsDragon and an idea I had a long time ago about the boys interacting with their grandmother.

John Watson, wearing rather baggy jeans and a yellow jumper that had seen better days – and was that baby-vomit on the collar? _Eurgh!_ –, pointed at Mycroft in a most irritating way. “You can’t fool me! You _know_ where he is! If you didn't, you would be _sick_ with worry!”

If Mycroft hadn’t found this little man so annoying, among other things, he would have applauded him for his on-point deduction. As he couldn’t stand him, he opted for raised eyebrows and an insincere smile, which he had perfected in dealing with the rich and the stupid (instead of biting their heads off as he would have liked to do). “Let’s say, totally hypothetical, mind you, that I know indeed where my brother is – why would I tell you if _he_ chose to not do it?”

John threw his hands in the air in a gesture that was worthy of drama-queen Sherlock. “Because _we’re_ all sick with worry! All of us! Mrs Hudson, Greg, Molly. He… He can’t just leave everything behind and disappear!” His rather unattractive face was a mask of outrage and self-righteousness.

Mycroft could feel a headache creeping up on him at John’s incessant screeching. The man might be looking pathetic and suffering enough to get past Anthea, bless her good heart, but he was wrecking Mycroft’s last nerve. As if his own colleagues didn’t do that thoroughly enough already… “Well, actually he can,” he said coldly. “He’s a grown man. He is entitled to do anything he wants, if he doesn’t endanger himself or others. I do think he sacrificed enough for the likes of you.” His blunt honesty, something he hardly ever took to, made the doctor delightfully speechless for a moment. Before he could even try to rant again, Mycroft looked pointedly at his watch. “As nice of you it has been to drop by, I am actually very busy. So if there was nothing else…?”

“How can you be so… fucking cold?” John blurted. “Sherlock just threw everything away. His job, his friends, his…”

“It’s his choice. Not mine, not yours. Leave now, Doctor Watson. Let the Met solve their crimes themselves for a change. And I’m sure you’ll find more competent babysitters for your daughter than my brother would be.” Mycroft didn't even wince when John stared at him with barely concealed hatred. He did sigh when the short man turned and stormed out, smashing the door in a great imitation of Sherlock, who had left his various offices like this numerous times.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. Perhaps the doctor did have a point though. Someone should check on Sherlock. See how he was doing, alone in a big but old house in a tiny village near Maidenhead. The house they had both inherited from Grandmother Lucyphilia.

Not that he needed John Watson to wonder about that. Of course he had thought a lot about Sherlock’s decision to leave his beloved London and his friends behind. No cases, no excitement. Or was he secretly solving cases now there, like a male and decidedly younger (and prettier, but Mycroft wouldn’t go there) Miss Marple? Doubtful. Mycroft might have checked the crime rate in his godforsaken place. Zero to zilch. No drugs available either… The average age of the villagers was sixty-two so there was not much demand for cocaine probably. Rather cheap booze, and that had never been little brother’s thing.

How was Sherlock coping with having nothing to do but… yes, what exactly? Taking care of his new pet, obviously. Chatting with strangers? Mycroft did not monitor his online activities. Maybe he should.

And he should go there in person. Of course – if Sherlock did not even want to see any of his friends, he would want to see him even less. Perhaps he should be wearing a helmet? Not for the first time he wondered what had triggered this amazing decision his brother had made seemingly out of nowhere. Nobody had seen it coming. Had it been the second fallout with their parents? Eurus just smiling stupidly and not saying another word? The whole unpleasant story with John? Or this unbearable scene with Molly Hooper in Sherrinford, which had certainly not led to a better relationship with the pathologist?

Who knew? Fact of the matter was, Sherlock had left 221B Baker Street, freshly restored, and London, the city he had loved for its beating heart of excitement, about two months after the horrific events in the prison that still gave even Mycroft, who was called the Iceman for a reason, nightmares. And Sherlock had apparently not contacted anyone since then, and he had even left his phone in Baker Street. No word to his Dear John, not Mummy, nobody. But he was still alive, so much was sure. Mycroft had his credit card debits tracked. There were, sadly, no CCTV cameras in that village. Or in the house. An omission, for sure. But Mycroft would have sworn that Sherlock wouldn’t want to be seen dead at this place he had more than once called ‘the arse-end of the world’. Obviously little brother had changed his mind about that.

Mycroft would go there next weekend if not held back by pressing government matters. Just to make sure Sherlock had not gone crazy.

And perhaps also because he missed him a lot more than John Watson would ever believe.

*****

When had he last used public transportation? Whenever it had been, Mycroft knew now why he had let himself be driven around over the past decades… The train to Maidenhead had been full of horrible people on this early Saturday evening (as of course the PM had called him in to take care of some dreary business so he couldn’t have gone earlier). Their smell and noise had been unbearable. He had been stared at by the morons – they probably did not see that many men in three-piece-suits, he reckoned… After that part of the annoying journey, he’d had to wait half an hour for a bus that would bring him to his actual destination, and that ride had been way bumpier – and: surprise! – the people on the bus had not been any less despicable…

But it had not felt right to use a government car for this visit. And… They had always gone here like this. He, Sherlock, their parents – and, for a short while, Eurus. Sitting in a compartment of a slow, shabby train for fifty minutes. He and Sherlock would play word games, trying to outdo each other, ever since Sherlock had become five. And little brother had been exceptionally grumpy when he a) had lost or b) Mycroft had let him win. Eurus had just watched them silently. She had also refused to talk to their grandmother. In fact, she had hardly spoken at all. In the end, she had regressed to this again, Mycroft mused when he started walking down the street after having escaped the bus at the station he could still remember.

Sherlock had stopped visiting her, and it had upset their parents very much. The elder Holmes still refused to accept that there was no ‘healing’ for their daughter’s numerous problems. Being attended to by her brothers and her parents would not suddenly make her a, well, decent or feeling human being. He had tried to tell them from the start but they had not wanted to hear it. And Sherlock had tried to make a connection with her – and Mycroft had never shown his hurt about that. Eurus had wanted him to die from Sherlock's hands and Sherlock wanted to play good big brother for her? Why ever? Because she had not drowned John Watson in the end? Mycroft would never confirm that he had very much liked the fact that Sherlock had given up on her after three weeks of frequent visits to Sherrinford, earning nothing but absent smiles and duets that had to bore him. And that he wouldn’t have minded if John’s skeleton had joined little Victor’s in that well…

Anyway. This was like travelling into his past, and with every step towards the house of Grandma Lu as they had called her, more memories were trickling into his mind. Of smiles and warm words and apple pie. Lu had been a very untypical member of the Holmes family. Shockingly normal and friendly. She had passed away when Mycroft had been twenty-four and Sherlock seventeen, bequeathing them her house and the vast grounds it was built on. In the middle of nowhere, almost a kilometre away from any other building, and all at once Sherlock had decided to move in. Without telling him, naturally, but certainly knowing that it was very easy for him to find out. For a moment Mycroft allowed himself to think that maybe Sherlock had wanted him to come. Nonsense! But he liked the thought nonetheless, planning to savour it until the inevitable moment in which Sherlock would glower at him and tell him to piss off.

And yet… He had left his phone – his phone! Glued to his hand for so long! – at Baker Street and come here, to a place they both owned. Perhaps it was nothing but a trap and little brother would strangle him as soon as he stepped in – it seemed to be a secret fantasy of his… Lestrade had told Mycroft what Sherlock had said about him at John’s wedding, and it had not exactly come as a surprise. But actually, Mycroft only expected exasperation and harsh words, as it had always been Sherlock’s habit towards him. Why had he bothered to come all this way again? Oh yes. To check how baby brother was coping. Some sentimental sod he was…

The house came into view when he had walked by several buildings a few minutes ago – and if the movements of the curtains were anything to go by, his every step had been watched. A two-story building but still somehow small. Tiny rooms but… cosy. That’s what it had been. Of course this had probably had more to do with the amazing woman their grandmother had been than with the house itself. How much of the old spirit was still there? How much had Sherlock changed? The place had been left in the capable hands of Lu’s housekeeper, who would keep it shipshape for a small salary. And now it harboured Sherlock… and obviously, a dog, judging by the items for which Sherlock had paid with his credit card recently. And he had not paid for any workers changing anything on the house so he had obviously just moved in.

The pathway threw Mycroft back to his youth. The same stones. Flowers to both sides. More voluptuous than he could remember. The door had been painted blue. And he smiled when he saw the knocker – lopsided as the one of 221B had always been. He took a deep breath and used it, and then he straightened it.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door opened up and the ugliest dog he had ever laid eyes on appeared on the doorstep, baring its sharp teeth, his tail between his shivering hind legs. It was a very small animal but not unintimidating, Mycroft decided with displeasure.

“Now, now, Jordy. No biting the British Government,” said a grimly smirking Sherlock, his trademark curls shorter than Mycroft had seen it in years, clipped by a not-untalented but impatient hand – in all probability his own. He was slim but more muscular than before his sudden disappearance, dressed in rather tight black trousers and a dark-red shirt. “Took you long enough,” he addressed Mycroft, accusingly and with narrowed eyes, before he turned and went back into the house, leaving the door open as a silent and a tad impolite invitation.

Feeling utterly surprised by this unexpected welcome, Mycroft stepped inside, glad that the skinny dog with the one ear and hardly any fur had run back inside without biting his ankle.

*****

Being in this house was an even greater throwback into his childhood and adolescence, his long gone youth. When was the last time he had been here? With about twenty, he assumed. For the big birthday party – Grandma, who had been widowed with not even 30, becoming 90. After that, he had only called his grandmother a couple of times before she had been gone forever. Sadness engulfed him when he spotted all the old paintings at the walls. The furniture was still the same. It was all neat and in good shape but it was like walking through a haunted house – even though of course Mycroft did not believe in such things. Still it felt as if his grandmother would appear any moment with an apron around her waist, inevitably carrying a tray with treats like cake and biscuits. Smiling at him, asking how he was doing.

And he had always been open with her. Had told her about the bullies at school, nibbling at one of her famous nut biscuits, and, at a later point, about Sherlock being hostile and fiendish. He had completely forgotten about this but now he could see himself sitting at the old kitchen table, a cup of hot chocolate in front of him, asking Grandma Lu what he should do to make things better with little brother again. The little brother he’d had to leave behind when going to university.

Had Sherlock done the same? Had he visited her too, without their parents, asking her for advice? Had she appealed to his conscience regarding his drug use, which had begun when he had been sixteen? Asked him to make things better with him, his older brother? Well, obviously not that, as he had never even tried and just nursed his resentments towards him year after year… Baby brother would have rather complained about their parents and all the world as nobody had understood him.

Little brother had indeed been here, Mycroft decided when he sat down on the creaking couch. He could see it in Sherlock's eyes when he now let himself fall into Lu’s old armchair, the dog on his lap. Sherlock would not have come here just because he had not known where else to go. He was not a poor man. He could have afforded a posher home. So almost half a year ago, he had come back for the memories of a place that had given him some comfort a long time ago. And had quickly found a new housemate. A more pleasant one than the last one, despite its challenging looks and personality, Mycroft had to admit. At least this one wouldn’t almost kick him to death and leave him at the hands of a serial killer…

“It’s, um, an unusual looking dog,” he remarked awkwardly when Sherlock made no attempt at starting a conversation but scrutinised him instead – and somehow, Mycroft felt even more out of place in his posh outfit than he had done on the train and the bus.

“His fur will grow again. Probably,” Sherlock retorted and gently pulled at the remaining ear of the pet. “He had been running around here for weeks, I was told,” he added, fury audible in his tone. “Nobody had bothered to bring him to a vet. Well, a few people had tried to catch him but he bit them.”

“But he trusts you,” Mycroft stated, seeing how calm the dog seemed on his brother’s thighs.

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes. It seems so. I was sitting in the garden one evening and he showed up and just walked into the house. It’s nice to have company. And you know I always liked dogs. Even the ones I only imagined with your helpful assistance…”

There it was… The unspeakable topic. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft mumbled, not knowing what else to say. They had never spoken about this. He had seen Sherlock only twice after Sherrinford. When they had informed the parents about the fact that their daughter was not actually dead and when the whole family had assembled at the prison for this one time. Sherlock had not accused him of having lied to him again. For not revealing the truth about Redbeard. If he’d had, Mycroft would have tried to explain that not only lying to their parents about Eurus’ whereabouts had been a kindness. Letting his little brother forget about her and the loss of his friend had been, too… All those horrible nightmares Sherlock had suffered from. The dark mood. The refusal to eat. It had been better like that – pushing these memories aside and starting anew. But he couldn’t find it in himself to bring up those arguments now, knowing they would probably not be received with gratitude.

Sherlock sighed. “Yes. I thought so. That’s why you never showed up again? Leaving me with my newly regained memories and all my so-called bloody friends?”

Now Mycroft was thoroughly confused. “But… You never wanted me to meddle in your life. I thought you -…”

“You thought – what, that I could fire at you, for starters? That I would just shrug off having killed my big brother? Are you insane?!”

Mycroft was speechless. Sherlock had seemed so cool in Sherrinford. Even when he had raised the gun to fire at him. Or when he had then pointed it at himself, refusing to play Eurus’ games any longer. Now he was furious. “I… I don’t understand.”

“No, clearly you don’t.” Sherlock got up and started to pace around in the small living room, the dog on his arm. “My whole life… was a lie. All I did for John… and Mary. It never occurred to you that I might have done that because of Victor? You even said that the man I had become had been my memory of Eurus. And Victor, I might add! I didn’t consciously remember him but a part of me obviously forced me to protect them at all costs because I bloody couldn’t protect _him_!”

And the cost had almost been his own life, more than once, Mycroft thought, suddenly feeling devastated. A can of worms had been opened, and Sherlock had clearly waited, even _longed_ for that to happen. Yet he had not sought Mycroft out to confront him for all the lies and half-lies and leaving him in the dark. He had waited for him to come here, to a place of their shared past, like a spider in its web, waiting for the bait to come home. It would have been so easy for him to fly under the radar. Well, Mycroft would have of course put his best agents on the task of finding out where his brother was but Sherlock was not only very smart but also skilled in disappearing and taking on new personas. He had done it for two years when he had blown up Moriarty’s network all by himself after all.

Sherlock had wanted him to follow him here. It was most amazing. But what for? To accuse him of all his wrongdoings? He could have written him a letter instead as they wouldn’t have fit into a text…

As he didn’t know what to say to this, did not want to provoke Sherlock more than necessary, he settled for, “John has come to me and -…” He was not surprised to be interrupted.

“John!” Sherlock would have certainly thrown his hands into the air just like the doctor had done if he had not still been holding the surprisingly patient dog like some grotesque accessory. “He understood nothing! He thought we were all good again and everything would be like before. And he kept on lamenting about Mary. Mary here, Mary there. I think he kept seeing her ghost, if you can imagine that!”

John had never appeared to Mycroft as a man who believed in supernatural manifestations, he mused. But if Sherlock said so…

“He insisted on giving up their flat as soon as possible nonetheless. Didn’t even ask me if I wanted him back in 221B when it had been reconstructed, with a baby that screamed all night above all.”

And Sherlock had not thought about telling him to stay away? Probably because he had, at this point, still thought he owed him something for involuntarily causing Mary’s death… Or for saving him from Culverton Smith, even though this had been Sherlock's own insane plan. Or perhaps he had just feared another outburst of violence, Mycroft thought with a heavy heart.

“And do you want to know what Mrs Hudson said?” Sherlock flared, and Mycroft caught himself making himself smaller on the couch when he shyly nodded. “She said – and without a hint of irony I might add – that Rosie could have John’s old room as we certainly planned on sleeping together now!” His voice had gotten louder with every word, and he instantly shushed the now shivering dog that had certainly not heard him speak like this before. There had probably never been anyone else to yell at…

“Oh. I see,” Mycroft brought out when Sherlock went on glaring at him expectantly. “And… you and John… did not want that?” The thought had been killing him ever since John Watson had shown up in his brother’s life, knowing he had no right to be jealous. Still it had been a relief that they had not ended up being lovers on top of Sherlock doing everything for the man.

“What! Are you mad? Did you really think that? Did you miss that he was married to a woman? All the girlfriends that had come and gone before escaped your view? All his _‘not gay’_ rants went unnoticed?” Sherlock huffed. “And did I ever give you the impression that I could want a romantic relationship with him?”

Well, actually… they had seemed to be attached at the hip quite impressively for a rather long time… But this was not the moment to bring this up… “Well, after Irene Adler, I -…” Mycroft said, knowing he would not get any further. Sherlock had not talked to anyone but the dog and some shop owners lately, he reckoned, assuming little brother had not wanted the old housekeeper around him, and so lots of words had piled up in his mind, and he would be the lucky one to hear them all.

“Irene! John kept nagging about her, too. Said I should meet her and -…” Sherlock shuddered, much to Mycroft's relief. “She was a puzzle, nothing more. A good one for a change. But I forgot about her when I had saved her sorry… neck.”

Mycroft grimaced. John had given that bit of information away in Sherrinford. “She was important enough to you to save her even though you pretended to dislike her when you gave me her phone,” he accused, not knowing why he even bothered to bring up these old stories – Sherlock usually hated talking about ‘ancient history’ and Mycroft did not like it much better. But apparently today was the time for it.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “That I didn’t want her getting beheaded because I had beaten her in the end due to her silly sentiment doesn’t mean I wanted to _be_ with her. Stupid. I’ve never been into women; I’d have thought you at least knew that.”

Before Mycroft could turn over this bit of information in his head, Sherlock continued with his voice even more raised. “And you know who else still did not get that and kept trying to seduce me after Sherrinford?”

“Um. Miss Hooper, perhaps?” The pathetic woman who had made Sherlock tell her that he loved her when he had been trying nothing else but to save her life.

“Bingo. She never said anything explicitly, oh no. But she kept dropping by almost every bloody day, bringing me chocolates and cake and rotten thumbs!”

Now that was a combination… Mycroft couldn’t suppress a smile, and Sherlock saw it with surprise and glowered at him before he sighed.

“Yes, you find that funny but I didn’t want to hurt her by right-out telling her that she could go on like this until the world ends and she still wouldn’t get me. And Lestrade!”

“What about him?” Had the decent DI also tried to get his hands at baby brother?

“He came to me with every shitty case under the sun. Nothing was too boring. He thought I was desperate and needed every bit of distraction. And he was right in a way but it did not work!” Sherlock finally gave up his frantic pacing and let himself fall into his chair again, the dog pressed to his chest. He smiled when a small red tongue lapped at his chin and he even pressed a kiss on the bald muzzle, which made Mycroft shudder less than he had expected. It looked rather… cute, he had to admit.

“Not even the exciting cases helped one bit,” Sherlock added then, darkly. “Nothing worked. I had to leave. I couldn’t go on like this.”

He sounded so resigned that it hurt Mycroft's heart, whose existence he had denied in Sherrinford, knowing how stupid that was. When it came to his little brother, his heart had always been huge. And heavy… “You are still young. You can find so many other things to do, and if you don't want to speak with all those people again, you don't have to of course.”

“And then there was my family!” Sherlock continued as if he had not heard a word Mycroft had just said. “Eurus, who tortured me, tortured _us_ , because I had neglected her. And when she finally had my attention, she didn't respond to it.” He gave Mycroft an _‘Is everybody I’m dealing with stupid?’_ look. “Our dear parents, who didn't want to listen to your warnings about her being beyond our reach. After all the shit I’d put them through in my youth, they dared call me the _‘grown-up’_! Then they were pissed off with you being right and me failing again.” He shook his head in agony.

Then he got up and to Mycroft's surprise, he sat down next to him. The dog glowered at Mycroft and he involuntarily robbed a bit closer to the edge of the couch but Sherlock shushed the pet and it relaxed again in his grip. “Everybody has their own agenda with me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, staring at him in a rather terrifying way. “John wants me to be decent and easy to handle. Still! Molly wants into my pants. Ha! Mrs Hudson wants to win her competition with that ghastly Mrs Turner. She seems to have totally erased the fact that John used me as a punchbag. Lestrade, well, he has become so lazy. All worried and nice, yes. But he had not even tried to solve any cases by himself anymore. I’m not a case-solving-machine!”

“No, you’re not,” Mycroft hastily agreed. He did not remind Sherlock of the fact that this all worked both ways. He had used all those people every bit as much, if not more, as they had used him. Sherlock had always known how to manipulate people into doing him favours. He might have learned that from his older brother…

“I know what you think,” Sherlock promptly hissed, pointing at him. “Yes, it’s true. I did use Molly for getting access to body parts and the lab. John was very useful at crime scenes and he was quite entertaining to be around. I needed the distraction of the cases so I needed a cop to give them to me. But… There was only one person in my whole life who did everything he did just to protect me, no matter what his agenda seemed to be at different points.”

When Mycroft furrowed his brow, trying to figure out whom Sherlock was talking about, the younger man sighed and rolled his eyes at the same time, a well-known habit Mycroft had never found very becoming but somehow appreciated right now.

“ _You_ , Mycroft, do keep up. Whatever you did, however annoying you might have been, you only did it for me. I… don’t want to be like Eurus,” he added then, confusing Mycroft even more. “She is her own prison, brother. She is not only physically locked up in it. Her whole mind is a prison cell. I want to be free and I don’t want to be alone, but I’m fed up with being the giver, I don’t want to be the centre of all kinds of twisted attention by those demanding people anymore. I need truthfulness, and being able to trust, and being… loved for who I really am, not an image people have made of me or think I should become. And there’s nobody else for that but… you.”

Mycroft was, again, speechless after this amazing outburst. So much emotion. Mrs Hudson had been right about that. Sherlock was all emotion. Still… He had just learned to hide it better than he had done when he had been a little boy. But apparently he did not want to hide it anymore. And he had left his old life behind, including the people who had seemed to mean something to him in a way for so long, to be himself.

And he had waited for Mycroft to catch him… Because… he thought that Mycroft… loved him? Could it be? Could he mean that in a way that was not brotherly? Now it was Mycroft’s turn to stare at Sherlock, and his brother bit his lip and looked away, suddenly appearing shy.

Could that really be? He had always hidden his true feelings so well, he had thought. Confusion, hope, terror and all other kinds of feelings threatened to overwhelm him, and Mycroft held onto the armrest of the couch as if this storm of sentiments could blow him out of the house.

“I saw it, Mycroft. In Sherrinford. When you were stupid enough to assume I’d shoot you. Don’t you remember that moment? When all our shields… were gone?” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible now.

Of course he remembered it. There had been such a strange, strong flow of energy between them, making both Eurus and John disappear from his mind for a moment. There had been a sentiment lingering in the air, so strong that it had threatened to consume him. But he had not realised that it was consuming Sherlock, too.

“We were close, Mycroft. When I was still that boy. So close. Even after Victor’s death, we were. I do recall it now. I had pushed these memories away, too. And I fucking missed you when you went away, to uni.” Sherlock shook his head, and the dog, sensing his distress, turned to lick his neck. “Thank you, little one. I talked to Grandma about it. She said it was just life and that you would never forget me. I know she was right now. But back then, it felt like… being all alone. Abandoned. Damn, it all came back when I got here. All those memories. My subconscious led me back here; I’m convinced of it. I’ve had so much time to think since then. And I hoped… you would come.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “What do you need? What shall I do?”

And suddenly Sherlock was sitting right next to him, and he put the dog onto the floor. After something that suspiciously sounded like a snort, it yawned and walked over to a thick pillow next to the second armchair to cuddle up on it, staring at them. “Be there for me,” Sherlock said very quietly. “I know you can’t stay for good. England would fall. But stay for this weekend, and come back if you can.”

“Come back for what?” He needed Sherlock to speak it out or he would not believe it.

“For loving me,” Sherlock said simply, and Mycroft's arms closed around him all by themselves, and then Sherlock's lips were pressed on his, and again everything around them seemed to vanish.


	2. Chapter 2

Something was different on this early Sunday morning. Very different. Sherlock realised it when he tried to stretch out on his bed, only to push against a warm, lively body that was not his dog’s. Oh. Yes. Mycroft. Big brother had finally shown up and he had stayed for the night.

And he had woken up before him and let him sleep. Typical!

“Good morning. Your dog is staring at me,” Mycroft said, squeezing his shoulder. “I have to pee but um, I think he would not like me leaving the bed.”

Sherlock chuckled against his clothed chest. He had given him a t-shirt to wear for the night as Mycroft had not brought pyjamas. Such little foresight! But it had been very nice to watch him undress. Very, very nice indeed. Such a furry chest… Such long legs. Such an impressive package beneath the tight, black pants. Such a firm little arse. All his to play with, and play with soon, hopefully. “The big, bad British Government is in fear of a little dog? Don’t let anyone hear that.”

Mycroft huffed. “I like my ankles to be intact, thank you very much. He seems to be very protective of you, he of little fur.”

Sherlock patted his brother’s shoulder. “He’ll get used to you. Soon you’ll be best friends.”

“So… you want to do this again?” Mycroft asked cautiously.

“Do what again? Snog a bit and sleep together?” Sherlock teased his brother. Of course he had not expected Mycroft to be all over him within an instant. Big bro was much too protective of him, too. And if everything played out as he hoped, they would have lots of time to be together in every possible way. In fact, the thought of actual physical intimacy was a bit scary, considering that he was an almost forty-year-old virgin. But he wanted it. He had thought a lot about it lately – actually ever since he had seen all this sentiment in Mycroft's eyes in Sherrinford, when he had felt safe to show it, assuming he would be dead the next minute. Stupid. Sherlock would have never fired at him. Not at John, either. He might have killed Magnussen without hesitation and without any remorse afterwards, but shooting his own brother or the man who had, despite being a loose cannon, saved him several times? For a plane up in the sky? A plane that had not even been there… He had literally facepalmed when he had finally been alone after going to John’s flat that night when Eurus had been brought away. A fine deduction-making detective he was…

Anyway. They had done nothing but kiss so far but Sherlock had enjoyed that very much. And so had Mycroft he was sure. They were both not experienced at this – Sherlock obviously not at all, Mycroft’s practice more than a bit rusty – but they had quickly figured out how to make their tongues dance with each other without drooling all over one another or clacking their teeth together. And with every kiss and chaste touch, Sherlock's aggression and tension had vanished more, until he had gone all pliant in big brother’s arms.

“Smartarse,” Mycroft said now, fondly, after giving him a long look. He looked rather adorable, all sleep-crumpled with his hair out of control. Decidedly not-British-Government-ly.

Sherlock couldn’t wait to _really_ see him out of control though… How would he be during sex, his big brother? All shy and careful? Or passionate and demanding? And how would _he_ be? Would he feel all embarrassed and keep silent, or would his low voice echo through this room or wherever they chose to lay hands on each other? He definitely longed to find out even though it was an intimidating prospect but he knew he would have to have a bit of patience. Perhaps even a bit more. Mycroft would be cautious. It was in his nature, protective as he was towards him.

“I am,” he admitted. “I really hope you know that this is not, you know, a whim. I’ve thought about this long and thoroughly.” He might or might not have freaked out at first when he had, alone in John’s guest room, thought about what exactly he had seen in Mycroft's eyes in that moment. He had known at once, in Sherrinford, that it was beyond brotherly care. But it had been only then that he had fully understood.

He had turned this over in his head again and again, and when they had met for facing their parents, he had been calm enough about it to hide his conclusions even towards his brother, only subtly taking his side against the elder Holmeses.

Over the following weeks and in the light of his changed relationships to his friends, he had made this decision – to leave London behind for good. Everything he had told Mycroft about that had been true – he just couldn’t go on like before – but there had been another reason.

He might not have been a hundred percent sure that Mycroft would want to actually act on the feelings Sherlock had not just seen on his face in Sherrinford but had now spotted in basically everything Mycroft had done for him in the past twenty years now that he had finally bothered with acknowledging it. But he had been well aware that if he did, it could never be in London.

He would never be able to trust any of his friends with the knowledge of an incestuous relationship. No way. John couldn’t stand Mycroft. And Sherlock had not seen himself bickering in front of him just to maintain the facade. Perhaps it would have been even funny for a short while but soon enough, it would have hurt them. Mrs Hudson could not stand his brother, either. As much as she liked him, Sherlock, as much she had taken a dislike to Mycroft without even knowing him. Mycroft had, of course, never tried to be friends with anyone Sherlock had liked, but he’d had good reasons for it. Especially regarding John.

Sherlock knew that they could never be open about it in public, no matter where they were. His face was not only famous in England after all. The internet had made him a global star. But he did not want to hide and pretend and act in his own home. The people in the village knew who he was of course as they knew who this house had belonged to before, but since he and Mycroft both owned this place and neither of them had ever been here without the other one since years before Lu’s passing, it would not seem so unusual if Mycroft dropped by every other weekend or however often he would have the time. If he chose to do it at all. But from the way Mycroft was looking at him now, he would have said that chances were good.

“Go to the bathroom now,” Sherlock told him. “I’ll make sure you still have both of your ankles when you come back.”

Mycroft smiled and rolled out of the bed. “Very considerate of you. How does he get out to pee by the way?”

“I bought a new backyard door with a dog door so he can always get out. By the way – he’s got a name.”

“Jordy, yes, I’ve heard.”

Sherlock was touched. He knew that Mycroft had an enormous brain capacity but he would have sworn that he had no idea how John’s daughter was called – but he did remember his dog’s name. If this was not a good sign, he did not know what was.

*****

“Will there be beehives?” Mycroft asked when they were walking across their large property, which included a lake and a small forest. Grandma Lu had been famous for her honey.

Sherlock, holding Jordy on a leash, gave him a surprised look. Then he smiled. “I guess not. I loved the honey but I don't think I’d be very good with bees.” They had scared him, actually. So organised and effective, yet so uncontrollable and intimidating in their swarm.

“You are very good with a former stray dog and an Iceman,” Mycroft said, smirking, and they stopped to share another deep kiss on a path that was surrounded by high grass, bushes and buzzing insects.

There had been a long conversation after breakfast, both expressing their wish to work on this unusual relationship, touching the literally touchy subject of sexual activity. Mycroft had assured Sherlock that he would be fine with having none at all if Sherlock decided that he didn’t like doing anything physical with him once he had tried it but Sherlock had just snorted and told him to get better prepared for sore body parts.

This all was so wondrous. Sherlock had not asked him (so far) when he had fallen for him, and Mycroft could not have answered this question with certainty as it had happened a long time ago and pretty gradually, but he had definitely never expected that his feelings could be reciprocated. Naturally, he had been struggling with them and trying to erase them, and the thought of being granted with Sherlock's desire was most breathtaking.

He hoped he would not mess this up. He hoped he would be able to give Sherlock whatever he longed for, and he certainly hoped this would not blow up in brotherly resentment and arguing. For a long time, they had not been very good at being brothers. Hopefully, they would be better at being lovers now.

“Do you want to see the grave? I reckon you haven’t been there for a long time,” Sherlock suggested when they parted for air, and Mycroft nodded instantly.

“Yes. Let’s visit Grandma Lu.”

*****

It was a small, beautiful cemetery only fifteen minutes away from the house, and they were the only people crossing it. Mycroft saw a squirrel, several birds and a rabbit minding their own business – and thankfully, Jordy just shot bored glances at them instead of barking and trying to catch any of the harmless little creatures. A peaceful place. Lu would have liked it, Mycroft thought when they approached the grave. He didn't believe in a heaven from which she was looking down on this place but he remembered well what a caring, maternal person she had been.

What would she think about the developments between him and Sherlock? Would she be shocked? Disgusted? Happy that they had found each other instead of suffering on their own?

He was well aware that he should rather ask these questions about their still-alive parents. But of course nobody would be allowed to find out about them. Not Mummy and Father – and he could not imagine them being anything else but appalled – and not Sherlock's numerous friends. Well, ex-friends rather as it seemed… And when would they even meet their parents next? Sherlock had excused himself for good, and he was in their bad books. They both were now, actually. He didn’t see himself and Sherlock visiting them for birthdays or Christmas anytime soon. Not that it mattered. What mattered was the beautiful man standing next to him and the prospect of shared happiness.

“She would approve,” Sherlock said quietly, his hand briefly touching Mycroft's. “She knew how difficult and incompatible with the common population we are. And she loved us both. Amazing, actually…”

Mycroft knew exactly what he meant. Of course their parents had loved their children, too, but the relationship had always been rather difficult. They had not understood their complicated offspring. Lu had been the opposite of her grandchildren in many ways, too, being so compassionate and loving to care for others, but she had been great at getting into their heads. If only their parents had not been so old already when they had finally decided to have children. He and Sherlock would have gotten to enjoy their wonderful grandmother for much longer. And yes – Mycroft knew that was not a really scientific thought as he might have been born being a girl or completely unattractive…

The gravestone was black and simple and polished, looking as if it had been standing there for months, not decades. It was adorned with fresh flowers and a tiny statue of a bird. Hell, her housekeeper must be nearly now as old as Lu had been when she had passed away. And she still went up here and made the effort of cleaning up the grave? And damn – the house and garden, too?

“Mrs Johnson’s daughter’s been looking after everything for the past ten years or so,” Sherlock explained when he asked him about it. “Her mother is still doing okay I was told but she can’t come here and take care of all this stuff anymore.”

Mycroft felt sort of ashamed. He had been paying the old woman all this time but had never spoken to her in person again. He had basically forgotten about this house and this grave. About his past and what once had been important to him. Queen and country, power and scheming had mattered to him big time but he had allowed being cut off his past. Even off Sherlock in many ways. He desired his brother, he had always tried to protect him – mostly from his own reckless behaviour – but he had long forgotten the child his brother had been. And the child he had been himself. In his mind’s eye, he saw his grandmother smile at him and he felt a strange pull at his heart, a pull of loss and regret and the irrational wish to turn back time, if only for a few precious moments.

“There’s no need for melancholy,” Sherlock said knowingly and briefly pressed his hand. “Let’s go back and be nice.”

Yes. Being nice to each other sounded like a really good plan.

*****

“Just give it to him. He loves this stuff.”

Mycroft gave him a suspicious glance. “I bet he likes biting my fingers more.” He threw the dog biscuit into the air and caught it again, scrutinised by a certain dog that was licking its snout in anticipation.

Sherlock grinned at his brother’s discomfort. “Would I risk you losing even one of those beautiful fingers before I’ve even found out what they can do to me? Just give it to him. He’ll take it like the darling he really is.”

Taking the dog into the house and caring for it had helped him a lot. He was still mad that he had not found Jordy sooner. While he had been busy feeling sorry for himself and trying to adjust to this new life without so much as a hint of excitement and distraction, the dog had been suffering out there, always hungry, alone and sick. But then Jordy had found him and Sherlock did not plan to ever let him go again. He had showered his new companion with treats and toys and the fluffiest dog basket he could find online – and still shared his bed with him whenever Jordy chose to join him – and paid high bills to Doctor Jefferson, the resolute, only vet of the village, but Jordy had paid everything back a dozen times with his affection and protectiveness. They used to cuddle up on the couch every evening, watching crap telly and enjoying each other’s company.

It was no wonder that Jordy was jealous of Mycroft who now shared said couch with him, Sherlock mused. He couldn’t be very fond of what had to be an unwelcome intruder in his eyes. But he would get used to Mycroft and fall for him like Sherlock had eventually done, and vice versa.

Sherlock smiled when he watched the dog coming closer, slowly, his eyes fixed on the treat on Mycroft's slightly shivering palm. And then he took the biscuit with all the gentleness he also showed Sherlock, and Sherlock didn’t miss the silent sigh of relief his brother breathed when he quickly retrieved his hand.

“See. I told you,” Sherlock said, squeezing Mycroft's neck. “There is no better way of earning a dog’s trust than by being quiet and calm and giving him goodies.”

Mycroft nodded. “Just as you fed me for lunch.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Exactly like that.” His smile died when he recalled that Mycroft would soon leave for London again. Would he really come back?

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft deduced his thoughts and pulled him in for an even tighter embrace. “Next weekend I’ll be back. If you want me to.”

“Cause I want that.” Of course, given Mycroft's line of work and responsibility, he could be kept from coming over anytime. Royal-related emergencies. Terroristic threats. Treason. A whiney PM who demanded attention. The list was long.

He didn’t dare hope that Mycroft would give up his life in London as well and move in with him. His brother was not connected to as many people as Sherlock had been before everything had turned sour but he was much more rooted in his work life. He had a house. He had power. Nothing had actually changed for him, well, apart from finding himself in an incestuous relationship with him that could destroy his entire life if it came out…

“Don’t think now, little brother,” Mycroft whispered, and the tenderness in his tone sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. “We’ll figure it all out. I promise.” And then his mouth claimed Sherlock's, and the ex-detective and new dog-daddy went all pliant in his big brother’s arms and allowed himself to simply melt away.

*****

It was so hard to be resistant. So difficult to keep his hands above Sherlock's waist (and not squeeze and worship those alluring bottom cheeks to his liking). So tough to gently but firmly push away Sherlock's straying hands when they slid from his back down to his own behind. So tempting to give in and satisfy their mutual hunger for more intimacy.

But no. He had to remain strong and resist the temptation of doing more than basically eating Sherlock's face, holding him tight and relinquishing in his warmth and sweet taste and irresistible beauty.

A lesser man would have caved in at Sherlock's mumbled demands and not quite just playful glaring and huffing and puffing about prude British Governments. But Mycroft was determined to wait at least another week. Not that he really thought that Sherlock would suffer any damage if they touched each other more intimately now. Or that his brother, famous for being volatile, might change his mind about this and break his heart. It just didn’t feel right to jump onto this so quickly, to fulfil his needs that had built up for about two decades right now. Oh lord…

“We agreed on not rushing anything,” he reminded his heated brother when Sherlock tried to rub his crotch for the umpteenth time (and boy was Mycroft hard in his pants).

“Stupid agreement,” complained Sherlock, nibbling at his ear. “And it _wasn’t_ even an agreement. You just said we should take our time. Stupid!”

“We’ll text and have phone calls all week, and getting to the goodies will only feel sweeter if we wait for them,” tried Mycroft, wondering if he was aiming to convince Sherlock or himself.

Sherlock huffed and sat back on his heels. “Fine. Have it your boring way,” he hissed, but there was an affectionate twinkle in his eyes that took the edge off his words.

“You know me,” smirked Mycroft. “Always the boring older brother.”

“And protective, too!” accused Sherlock, and Mycroft realised that he loved him so much that he could have eaten him up on the spot.

“Very,” he unapologetically confirmed. He turned to glance at the dog that was watching them from his dog basket in the corner of the room. Little voyeur… At least he had not tried to bite him off of Sherlock… “Will he… be here when we…”

Sherlock grinned maliciously. “But of course. Don’t worry. He’s been castrated so he won’t try to join.”

“Lucky me,” mumbled Mycroft. He had to admit he was touched by how Jordy was watching over Sherlock. He had always appreciated other people’s care for his reckless little brother. Especially DI Lestrade’s. Mrs Hudson’s, even though he was not that fond of her otherwise and knew that she hated him. And finding him annoying or not – he had even welcomed Doctor Watson in Sherlock's life in a way because of the man’s instant loyalty towards baby brother. At least until the doctor had turned out to be Sherlock's worst enemy… And now this dog. As weirdly intimidating and unpleasantly looking as it was – Mycroft had to say that he liked this brave and intrepid little creature which had gone through so much better than any human who had claimed his brother’s affection.

“He’s a good boy,” Sherlock said, rubbing his nose against Mycroft's cheek, and Mycroft had to agree.

“As long as he doesn’t bite me in the -… when we -…”

Sherlock laughed out loud. “God, and there was a time when you doubted that sex didn’t alarm me. You talk like a monk!”

“I’ve been living like one for a long time,” Mycroft said, seriously, and Sherlock touched his cheek with his flat hand.

“Good. And I’m not sharing you.”

“Well, seems I’ll be sharing _you_.” Mycroft glanced at the dog, which gave him a look that could only be described as ‘smug’.

“Do you mind?” smirked Sherlock, and Mycroft rubbed his back.

“No, I don’t.”

“Good.” Sherlock disentangled himself from him with obvious reluctance. “I guess we should have tea now before you have to leave.”

Mycroft nodded. It would be a hard thing to do – leaving little brother behind. But needs must. And he would be back. Very soon.


	3. Chapter 3

For months, Sherlock had been living alone in this house. He had not missed the noise and the vitality and the smog of London. It had really surprised him. To be cut off from all this hectic activity and demands by certain people and life in general and have come to a place that seemed like something from another century – albeit with perfect internet access; wonders never cease – had disturbed him much less than he had expected. It had been freeing, yes. From expectations he couldn’t and didn't even want to meet. From friendships that had run their courses. But it had also been like a pull to something else. To connect with the past he had forgotten about in his struggles with his childhood drama. To lure his brother here so they could start being what they could have never been in London.

And he had embraced the peace and quiet. Mycroft might have thought that he had just moved into the old house, leaving all the creaky furniture in – apart from the bed and the toilet – but in fact he had done quite a bit of DIY in his new home. He had discovered that he was quite competent at using the scrapers and brushes he had found in the cellar, most of them unused. It had distracted him from the boredom that had threatened to get him in those first days.

But he had very soon found out that he just didn't get bored that easily anymore when he had finished revamping the old house. He was content with reading a book or just walking over the grounds and across the cemetery, usually very late or very early so he wouldn’t have to meet any people, as few and far between they might be in this drowsy little village. Of course he had also brought his violin, and playing it was still providing lots of cosy distraction to him.

And then Jordy had come into his life, and any hint of loneliness had vanished. He had still waited for Mycroft to show up, wondering how long it would take his brother to actually chase him, but having to care for this abandoned little creature had filled his days with something meaningful to do, and if asked, he would say that Jordy was the best friend he’d ever had. A friend that would not drop him if he said something wrong or left a head in the fridge – not that he did that these days; he would have had to dig them up in the cemetery and he had no inclination to do so. Jordy loved him, bottom line, with the loyalty and fierceness only a dog could offer, and Sherlock loved him back with equal devotion.

He had been happy with his new home and his new companion. And still… Now that Mycroft was gone, he felt rather empty and lonely for the first time since he had come here, despite his furry companion. He did not like that one bit.

“Never fall in love; I’m telling you,” he said to the dog, which was looking up to him with eyes full of adoration, but he could have sworn Jordy had just rolled them. “No, really. He’s hot and warm and I can’t wait to peel him out of his clothes but dammit… He’s not here.”

Was Mycroft missing him the same way? Was he burning to return just like he had told Sherlock before he had left? Or would reason and fear take over and give him second thoughts? Mycroft had assured him that it wasn’t going to happen and Sherlock had deduced that he meant it. But he would only believe that Mycroft was willing to indulge in something as forbidden as incest when he came back and actually did it. And he wished Mycroft had let him do something more, something really sexual, so he would have had him at least once if big brother did change his mind… “I love him,” he told the dog, and Jordy huffed as if to say, _‘_ Of course _you do. You think I’m blind? Or stupid?!’_

Sherlock gave him a smile and then he went to take the leash. “A walk, Your Highness?”

Jordy’s enthusiastic yelping and tail-wagging was answer enough. Dogs were so easy to make happy. It was much more challenging with British Governments...

*****

Mycroft listened into the silence of his house. Strange. It had always felt like a safe harbour, coming home here. Well, at least until his dear brother and Doctor Watson had found it necessary to scare him with two rather ludicrous people in order to summon him to Baker Street to confess his sins. He didn’t exactly like remembering that day. Let alone their mutual adventure in Sherrinford. Nothing of this had been something to be proud of.

Sighing, he put his new alarm system back in motion before he slid off his coat and walked over to his living room for a glass of fine scotch. He didn't bother with switching on the lights. He could manoeuvre in this house without seeing anything.

The ride home had certainly been exactly as ghastly as the way there but he had hardly noticed the annoying people with their noise and smell. The more distance had grown between him and the brother he had kissed passionately once more before reluctantly leaving his (or rather: their) house, the stronger reality had hit him. He and Sherlock – they were together now, something he had longed for for decades. And he was already missing him like crazy. Not wanting to seem too clingy, slightly fearing to annoy his brother even though it was probably silly, given Sherlock's enthusiasm, he had refrained from texting him at once. And he didn't want to do this while surrounded by strangers anyway. It felt too… holy for that. This wasn’t a flirt. This was not just something that made his heart beat faster. Not just the prospect of sexual fulfilment. Not even only the promise of romance, of shared meals and conversations, fondness and tenderness. It was destiny. The one love that defined him, taken to a much higher level completely unexpectedly.

It was engulfing him like a cloak – this love, this longing, this craving to be with him again. He had never known such a feeling. His past encounters with men, long ago, had not prepared him for this. There had not been sentiment. He was drowning in it now. And they had only just begun.

He sipped at his drink in his cosy living room. Everything felt sharper and brighter and more vivid. It was like waking up from a decades-long slumber or even a coma. All the clichés about love seemed to be true after all.

He knew he should check his emails. He needed to read some reports. He would, in a while. Until then, he would just sit here, legs crossed, the glass in his hand, in the dark room, and think about the most remarkable development his life had ever seen.

*****

Over the course of the next few days, the brothers were in contact very often. Whenever Mycroft had the chance during his busy days at work, he would initiate a video call, and they talked, sometimes for two minutes, sometimes for half an hour, or, when Mycroft was at home after work, for two hours, and the conversation flew a lot more naturally than either had expected. Being separated seemed to only increase both the longing and feeling closer as they both made the effort of understanding the other one; something that had been missing for all their adult life.

Sherlock used to reach out to Mycroft via texting, mostly because he couldn’t know when his brother would be free to take a call. Their written conversations were more teasing and filled with fond bickering and more and more innuendos and getting more and more ridiculous because they felt they could be like this with each other now, and they were just as welcome.

*

_Hey… You’re still at work? Jordy and I are sitting in the garden with a glass of wine. SH #picture attached#_

_Lucky you. Don’t give the dog wine! Have to go into a meeting in a moment, last minute decision from the PM… MH_

_Of course not! He’s got water. I will drink a glass on you. SH_

_Yes, just rub it in. MH_

_I’d rather rub_ _ you _ _. SH_

_Naughty! MH_

_I haven’t even started to be naughty. SH_

_But you can’t wait, can you? MH_

_Don’t state the obvious. SH_

_I need to go. Don’t get drunk. MH_

_I’m drunk on you. SH_

_That’s nice. MH_

_So am I. Later. MH_

*

_Hey… Jordy wants to say goodnight to Papa, who is wasting his time on boring government parties. SH_

_Boring it is. That’s what I am? Your dog’s papa? That’s… disconcerting. MH_

_Of course you are. We both are. And he’s an excellent child. SH_

_Given your curls and lips, you could easily be his Mummy. MH_

_Thin ice, brother. So… A goodnight kiss? SH_

_For Jordy or you? MH_

_Both of us, naturally. SH_

_Consider yourselves kissed. Tongue’s only for you. MH_

_But he has such a nice, long tongue. SH_

_I don’t want to know what you are doing in your bedroom… MH_

_But you will find out soon. In three days, to be precise. SH_

_So you are determined to go all the way this weekend? MH_

_As much of the way as you let me. SH_

_You know me. I’ve never been very good at saying ‘no’ to you. MH_

_Don’t start now. SH_

_Would be pointless anyway, wouldn’t it? MH_

_Completely. Now go back to kissing the PM’s arse. SH_

_That’s not the way into my pants, you awful boy. MH_

_We shall see about that. SH_

_Yes, I suppose so. Goodnight, menace with sharp teeth, and to Jordy, too. MH_

_Ha ha. Bad brother. Jordy shows you his middle finger. SH #picture attached#_

_That looks more like yours. MH_

_Bye now. I miss you. MH_

_We miss you, too. SH/JH_

_Crazy boy. MH_

_Just as you like me. SH_

_I do. Bye. MH_

_Bye, brother mine. SH_

*****

Finally a moment to himself… Mycroft, having slumped heavily into his chair, buried his face in his hands. Another day in hell. Or rather: the office. People had seemed to love making his day as unbearable as possible. As if dealing with the nightmare that was Brexit and the idiots who had been elected by God knew who on a daily basis wasn’t bad enough – there had been a minor scandal caused by a lord who could not keep his fingers to himself. There had been rumours of a terror attack arising that had turned out to be total nonsense – thank God – but had kept him on the phone for hours. A meeting with a PM in an exceptionally silly mood had tried his already thin-wearing patience. And on top of that another invitation for ‘drinks’ – and boy had it been embarrassing for him to learn that this was just a euphemism for something unspeakable – by a Lady Smallwood who just refused to take no for an answer. Well, she had done so in the end as he had even less tolerance for this right now and had uttered his rejection in rather clear words. Mycroft hoped he wouldn’t need her help on anything so soon again because he would sure as hell not get it…

He had sent Anthea home two hours ago and assumed that he would be allowed to finally draw a line under this awful day soon as well when his phone signalled a text. His mood immediately lifted when he read,

_Hello, big brother of mine. Still confined in the halls of power? SH_

Instead of replying, Mycroft initiated a video call, which was accepted at once.

Sherlock looked amazing, Mycroft thought when he saw his brother, sitting in a garden chair, the dog on his lap. His complexion looked healthier than ever, his eyes were sparkling, and he oozed contentment, and Mycroft loved it. Too often had he seen his brother unconscious/pained/on the verge of death in the past, often enough due to the odd Watson. Never again.

He also adored the way Sherlock was holding Jordy in place so he wouldn’t drop off his knees. It was great to see Sherlock attached to a creature that knew what loyalty and faithfulness was – instead of turning against him at the slightest inconvenience. Mycroft was rather positive that he and the dog would grow into being nice with each other, and in any way he was very glad that Sherlock had someone to look after and to be looked after in return, to keep him from being lonely when Mycroft could not be with him.

“ _Damn, you look ghastly,”_ Sherlock started the conversation just when Mycroft was about to compliment him for his beauty.

He sighed. “Thanks a bunch. That’s what work does to us mortals.”

Sherlock grinned and shook his head _. “You’ve never been one of them. You’re larger than life. Well, your cock surely is…”_

“Sherlock!” Mycroft couldn’t help but feel flattered but he opted for a playful glare. “Don’t be crude.”

“ _Why not? It made you smile. I saw it. Can’t hide anything from me anymore.”_ Sherlock looked decidedly smug now, and Mycroft had never adored him more.

And he only wished he could be with him right now, and sod waiting and being cautious. If Sherlock had been with him now, he would have kissed him silly and then taken him apart with his hands, tongue, lips and everything else he had in store.

Of course Sherlock deduced him correctly once more _. “Mm. Good. Two more days. You won’t work yourself into the ground until then, will you? And nothing will keep you from coming over?”_ He looked worried all at once, and Mycroft shook his head vehemently.

“Nothing will get in the way. I won’t allow it. I… miss you.”

“ _Good. So do I.”_

“And… Sherlock…”

“ _Yes?”_ The younger man tilted his head.

“I love you.” There, he had said the words he had never said to anyone else in his life. And it would have been a lie if he had used them with anyone else.

Sherlock looked positively awestruck. But not offended, thank God. _“Damn, Mycroft. Such sentiment from you?”_

Mycroft nodded with conviction. “Yes. That’s me. Awfully sentimental. You think you’ll get used to it?” Because saying those words he had thought he would never utter out loud had been nice. Really nice. And he planned to say them again. Very often.

An equally fierce nod was the answer _. “Definitely. Because… I love you, too. Even Jordy loves you,”_ he added, obviously feeling a tiny bit embarrassed by saying it.

For a moment, they just stared into each other’s eyes before they both started to smile. “Good,” Mycroft said. “I think I love your dog, too.”

“Our _dog, brother mine.”_

“Yes.” That was it now – their new little family. Two brotherly lovers and a dog that looked as if it had been through hell and back, only to end up in the best of hands.

Mycroft knew he would get used to all of this. He already loved it.

*****

“Who’s this? Did you make a new friend?” Sherlock asked with a chuckle, glancing at the bus window, behind which a little girl with flaming red hair was frantically waving.

Mycroft followed his look with a fierce glare. “She kept harassing me all the way here!” he hissed, and Sherlock hid his grin behind his hand. “I told her mother to get her away from me but she just looked at me as if I was, I don’t know, a bad man.”

His brother looked particularly delectable today – no fancy but conservative suit but tight black trousers, a dark-red polo neck sweater and a light jacket. But there was something on his knee…

“Yes! And this awful brat smeared ice cream over my clothes!” complained Mycroft, his long-fingered hand cramping around the grip of his bag, the other one pointing at his leg. He had not even brought his umbrella, Sherlock noticed.

“You should sue her,” he suggested, and Mycroft glowered at him, but Sherlock was not being fooled. The Iceman may have made an appearance on the bus (albeit getting ignored, obviously, and by a little girl of all people) but he was not mad at _him_.

“Your dog is laughing at me, too,” Mycroft added in a somewhat resigned tone, looking down on an actually grinning Jordy.

Sherlock had, to his surprise, found out that some dogs were indeed capable of laughing or grinning, and Jordy was one of them. He might not have a lot of reason for amusement in the first approximately two years of his life but Sherlock was determined to make him show his skill as often as possible for the hopefully long rest of his existence. And a slightly dishevelled and ice-cream-stained Mycroft was certainly a good reason. “No, he’s just smiling because you’re being adorable.”

“Adorable! I’m not adorable!” Mycroft’s eyes were narrowed with outrage.

Sherlock had never wanted to kiss his brother more than now. But they were standing at the bus station and even though the village was not particularly flooded with people, they still couldn’t risk anything that could make someone suspicious. “Yes, you are. Pick him up now so we can go,” he told his brother while taking the bag from his hand.

Mycroft gave him a confused look. “Why ever should I do that? He can walk!”

“Yes, but he loves to be carried.”

“Then why did you just take my bag instead of him?” Mycroft asked with infallible logic.

“Because he missed his new daddy and wants to cuddle with him,” Sherlock said and turned to leave, making sure to wiggle his hips.

He heard a deep sigh behind him and grinned when the noises of a man bending down to grab a small dog and, a moment later, said small dog licking the man’s face followed, causing another rather disgusted moan. Oh, they were going to have so much fun this weekend.

*****

“You’ll never guess who’s visited me in the Diogenes yesterday,” Mycroft said after swallowing a bite of the delicious pasta with shrimps they had prepared together. It had been lots of fun to playfully bicker around while cutting onions and spinach, watched by the ever curious eyes of the dog, who was now lying next to Sherlock's chair, sated already by his ghastly-smelling dinner.

“No, I won’t,” Sherlock said in a deliberately bored voice.

Mycroft grinned and shook his head. “It was Mrs Hudson.”

“What?” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. “How did she even know you’re there?”

“My guess is that she called Anthea even though my most efficient PA didn’t confess when I asked her.”

“Women,” Sherlock said knowingly. “They always stick together against us.”

“Not without reason, I assume,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. He wasn’t exactly a feminist – because he was not exactly a humanist – but he was not totally ignorant, either.

“Probably not. So? What did she want?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “You really have to ask? She wanted to know how you are. And where, too.”

“Thank God you didn’t tell Anthea then,” Sherlock said, stubbornly, and Mycroft sighed.

“Sherlock…”

The ex-detective put his fork onto his almost empty plate and sulked. “Yeah, I know. I should call her.”

Mycroft was the last person to approve of Sherlock's friends, and he knew very well how little his brother’s former landlady liked him – he still did recall her calling him a ‘reptile’ and throwing him out of her house – but she had done a lot for his challenging brother. Enduring all his mess and tantrums over the years. “Perhaps you might want to come to London eventually, too,” he said, shrugging. “You could visit me and go to Baker Street for a cuppa and some ginger nuts.”

“Would I be allowed to bring Jordy to your place?” Sherlock enquired, daring him to decline.

“Of course. He’s our child after all.”

Sherlock grinned and then he sighed. “Yes. I will do that, and then visit her. Maybe even drop by at the Yard. But that’s it!”

Yes. Lestrade, the other person who had been there for Sherlock unconditionally. Of course not without ulterior motives, but the DI had shown tremendous patience with the boy’s trying behaviour at crime scenes, and certainly not only because Sherlock was basically doing _his_ work. He did really like him.

Interesting that Sherlock did not seem to have forgiven John for, well, what? Wrecking his last nerve with his wife-gone-ghost and his screaming infant? Or had he finally understood that John’s violence had been a total no-go, no matter how much Sherlock might have thought he deserved it at the time? John had saved Sherlock, quite literally, in some situations, and of course Mycroft appreciated that. But he had also been the one who had hurt him the most.

“I will come,” Sherlock said, watching him. “But don’t tell anybody beforehand!”

“Of course not. And it will be nice to have you in my house.”

“You mean unlike last time I was there.”

Mycroft winced at the memory of certain clowns and dwarfs and Sherlock and John riding high on their arrogance, and his own pathetic behaviour.

“I never said sorry,” Sherlock said very quietly. “Actually I’m sorry for a lot of things I did to you.”

“All forgiven and forgotten,” Mycroft said in a no-nonsense tone. He would not allow them to waste their time on regrets and apologies. They had to find new patterns in dealing with each other and they had already made a great start – their preparations of the food had been interrupted by frequent kissing and some highly suggestive groping, and who would have ever thought they would be with each other like this?

Sherlock's look had gone soft. “I’ve finished eating,” he breathed in a seductive tone.

“So have I. Time for washing up!” beamed Mycroft, and he laughed when Sherlock groaned in impatience and frustration. Ah, this was so much fun…

*****

There had never been anything nicer than this. Forget running after criminals. Forget deducing pathetic people to shreds. Forget getting high. Actually he _was_ getting high right now – high on kissing Mycroft, high on pawing at big brother, high on having an erection that could easily smash a hole into the wall. It was as if the world around them had stopped existing and they were happily contained in their little bubble. Jordy had snorted and left the room when they had started to kiss on the couch so they were all by themselves.

And Sherlock was horny and anxious and eager to finally get to Mycroft's delicious skin and have his way with him and at the same time slightly afraid he could behave clumsily and even hurt his brother involuntarily.

Of course Mycroft deduced his thoughts and said, “You know, we can always stop if you don't like it, and we don’t ever have to -…”

“Oh, shut up, Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed, and then his fingers fumbled impatiently with Mycroft's shirt-buttons.

“Let me help you before you turn my clothes to shreds. And don't you want to go upstairs first? It might be more comforta-…”

“What did I just say?!” Sherlock had finally succeeded in getting the shirt off Mycroft's shoulders, and then he was just staring – and probably drooling – at the furry chest he had revealed. Gone was the anxiety within a second. He couldn’t wait to bury his face in this black jungle, and he moaned at the first contact of his lips with Mycroft's rapidly stiffening left nipple.

This was what he had been longing for, and it was really just the beginning. While kissing his brother’s chest, warm beneath the wiry hair, he unzipped the other man’s trousers and reached inside to get to the silky, warm skin he knew was waiting for him.

*****

Dear lord… Having those long fingers wrapped around his cock was almost more than Mycroft was able to bear. It was hard not to shoot over the eager hand instantly. Sherlock was inexperienced but talented, and he wasted no time, rubbing Mycroft's large appendage with vigour. And if his greedy look was anything to go by, he found it very much appealing. He had mumbled a few words about Mycroft's generous size – something about big brothers who always needed to surpass their younger siblings – and then he had said nothing at all anymore, totally focused on weighing and rubbing and pulling and probing, and it felt right-out heavenly.

Was it wrong? In everybody else’s eyes, certainly. But they had never exactly cared about the views of the goldfish, and they had always made their own rules. It was a juicy secret that could never be shared with anyone, and Mycroft wouldn’t have wanted that anyway. And since Sherlock had left all his friends behind with little to no remorse, it was very improbable that he would suffer from having to keep this between the two of them. Actually little brother had chosen to disappear from the world to this place in the middle of nowhere, not needing anyone else’s company but Mycroft's and a little dog’s. And Jordy might not exactly like watching Mycroft pawing at his master so he had chosen to leave them alone but he would hardly gossip about anything that happened in this house.

Somehow Mycroft wanted to have Sherlock in his own bed at least once – probably even to erase the memory of this pre-Sherrinford horror show, perhaps also because he had never had anyone in his bachelor bed. But this couch was totally sufficient for now.

He didn’t protest when Sherlock stopped fumbling with his cock just to slide to the floor, kneeling between Mycroft's legs. If baby brother wanted to suck him, there was nothing Mycroft would be able to say to make him refrain from it, and really – who would want this?

Mycroft had never indulged much in fantasies about Sherlock doing anything sexual with him before he had come here for the first time in so many years, thinking it to be pointless and even hurtful, but he would have lied if he had denied that he had dreamt of Sherlock's luscious lips worshipping him before, of those beautiful cheeks getting hollow, of those cheekbones sticking out like delicate blades.

As it was his nature, Sherlock wanted too much too soon and gagged and impatiently wiped his watery eyes only moments later, but he continued to lap and tease and lick and drool as soon as he had stopped coughing.

Mycroft had his hand on his brother’s neck – of course not to push him down but to encourage him and show him his gratitude for this selfless act. He would have preferred being the one to perform this action first but since Sherlock had hastened to be at the task before him, he was very willing to be the object of desire. The odd bite and having his balls pulled at a bit on the wrong side of pain was a small price to pay for being the one Sherlock had chosen to do this intimate act with. And he learned fast, as he learned everything fast, and soon Mycroft stopped thinking altogether and simply enjoyed being devoured.

*****

If Sherlock had been a cat, he would have probably been purring now, Mycroft mused, licking his lips. He could still taste his little brother’s essence, and if he’d had a say in this, it would be filled in bottles. “So,” he said, squeezing Sherlock's arm, “did you like your first sex?”

Sherlock raised his head from Mycroft's chest. He looked exceptionally beautiful with his still reddened, puffy lips, his tousled hair and the pink cheeks. “Did you get the impression that I didn’t?”

“Not exactly,” grinned Mycroft. Sherlock had been so eager. Mycroft had literally seen how he had stored and filed every sensation away – both when giving and when receiving oral pleasures for the first time. And Mycroft had loved to worship his brother’s smooth, muscular body until he had sucked his long, slightly bent cock. Sherlock had been wriggling and moaning much to his pleasure, obviously enjoying himself to the extreme. It was something he had never expected to be allowed to do. It was something he wanted to do over and over again. And he wanted to do more, and he didn't have to ask Sherlock to know that his brother shared the sentiment. They had two days ahead and they would make good use of the time, he assumed. One step at a time, would be the motto though. Well, at least _his_ motto. Perhaps he would learn to say no to little brother after all, just to make it even more satisfying when it actually happened.

“I think we need a shower,” he said now, earning some grumbling and hissing that made him smile.

But then Sherlock let himself be pulled up and led to the bathroom. And Mycroft felt not even irritated that Jordy joined them when he towelled baby brother off, watching them with fierce eyes but appearing content that nothing bad was done to his beloved master. And when they cuddled up in bed again, the dog joined them, lying on Sherlock's legs, and Mycroft reached out to pat the little head, and he smiled when his hand was licked by a warm tongue.

*****

Sherlock was clinging to his panting, sweating brother for dear life, his face bumping against Mycroft's cheek at every deep stroke.

It had taken lots of nagging and sulking to finally get him to fuck him. Mycroft had annoyed him by saying that they should perhaps wait some more with going all the way and that patience was a virtue. Ha! Since when? The moment Sherlock's mouth had closed around the wide, tasty crown of Mycroft's massive cock, he had known he wanted everything and he wanted it at once.

Still he’d had to wait until Sunday morning when Mycroft had finally given in. They had fumbled some more on Saturday, and Mycroft had done some exceptionally lovely things with his tongue, which Sherlock had immediately reciprocated when he’d had his breath back. The rest of the day had been mostly talking and cooking and taking walks with Jordy.

Since it had been rather chilly, Sherlock had put him into his red dog coat that he had ordered a while ago together with a bunch of toys. Jordy had not approved but let himself be manhandled into the embarrassing piece of clothing. Still he had cast his brother a rather sheepish but fierce look as if to dare him to mock him. But Mycroft had just bent down, scratched his snout and told him that he was a good boy, and Sherlock had been able to actually see how Jordy had finally fallen for his brother as well. He wasn’t here now though. There were limits. What they were doing was not meant for an innocent little dog’s eyes.

“You alright?” Mycroft panted now, his breath hot against Sherlock's face.

“Yes. Fuck me, brother.” Sherlock all but blushed at saying this so bluntly, and Mycroft gasped and moved his hips a bit harder than before.

It did feel as if he was being torn in two. But it felt tremendously _good_ to be torn in two. Mycroft was hung big but he knew how to use his tool. And Sherlock didn't even want to think of the faceless other men his brother had done this with. It made him want to kill them, no matter how long ago they had been allowed to lay their dirty hands on his lover.

“So deep in you,” growled Mycroft, and stilled in embarrassment a moment later.

Sherlock urged him on with his heels, kicking against his brother’s arse – that’s how flexible he was. It was cute to have Mycroft stripped of his shields, saying silly things like this. This wasn’t a moment for stiffness (well, apart from the obvious…) and sophistication and holding back. It was the time for raw emotion and naughty exchange of bodily fluids.

Of course Mycroft had given him meticulous preparation. Big brother would never do this while taking even the slightest chance of damaging him. It still hurt and stung but Sherlock thought that he had never felt this high with any chemical substance he had taken in his life. Whenever Mycroft moved in him with a little twist upwards, Sherlock was close to screaming to the ceiling, and perhaps he only constrained himself so that Jordy wouldn’t run back in and bite in Mycroft's arse because he thought he was hurting him. Or maybe because Sherlock was not used to voicing his pleasure out aloud. He had never felt anything like this.

And the moment Mycroft came in him, he winced at the very weird feeling of hot fluid shooting up in his rear end. It was astonishing and foreign and he couldn’t wait to feel it again.

Mycroft slid out of him just to take him into his mouth, and Sherlock didn’t even have time to grunt before he climaxed as well, flooding his brother’s mouth with his come. He had taken Mycroft's, too, at the very first try, and it had taken all his willpower to not throw up, but the displeasure had vanished very quickly. He had actually loved everything they had done with each other so far, and he wanted to do so much more. But Mycroft would leave in about five hours, and it would mean at least another week of missing him and fantasising about what they could be doing if Mycroft just wasn’t the British Government.

*****

Mycroft had wanted to lie down next to his new lover and catch his breath, but Sherlock had other plans. He forced Mycroft up again by pulling at his arms and made him cover him with his body, making Mycroft feel like a fat toad collapsing on his brother. But he was touched that Sherlock would want so much body contact even after their sex. And if he wanted him to serve as a hairy blanket, so be it.

He did sense some displeasure in Sherlock though, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was on his mind. Mycroft was supposed to go back to London in a few hours. The next week would be packed with work again. Like every week. Every day, apart from the weekends, and actually Mycroft had used to work on most weekends and even holidays as well. With the insanity that was Brexit coming up, it would not get easier.

He envied Sherlock, he had to admit. Little brother had shed all the ties that had been holding him in the city of finance, hectic, and adventure. He had simply thrown it all away and it had grounded him in ways that Mycroft had never expected. Caring for a dog without fur, minding his own business otherwise, hurling himself into a passionate relationship. Nothing of this would have had to be expected from Mr Thrill-Of-The-Chase.

And then he saw himself sitting in his office, feeling miserable. He couldn’t just walk away from his responsibilities. But… he didn’t have to be their slave like this anymore, either, did he? Meetings could be held via video call. Or simply replaced by orders. He was pretty good at giving orders. He didn’t have to be in his office to read his reports. Some things needed his personal attention. But he was not that far away from London at all. If necessary, he could take the godforsaken bus and the train and be there. Or he could send for a car. Working like this would mean spending less time with the annoying people at the office. He would gladly endure the horrible ones on his journey instead if he could spend a lot more time with his beloved that way.

Somehow he didn’t see himself leaving Sherlock so soon. He looked down at him and his heart melted at how dishevelled but also dignified little brother looked. A beautiful god, sated but also sad because of him.

“Would you… like me to stay for a few more days?” Meetings would have to be rescheduled. But there was no day like today to try and find out if video conferences worked. He was the boss. He could simply make it happen. And Sherlock had already said he would visit him in London. They could have some time-sharing arrangement – a few days in London, the other time here. If they endured each other for so long. But somehow he was very hopeful regarding that.

Sherlock blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Of course.” Actually there was nothing that made his presence at the office necessary for the next two days, if he remembered correctly. And he was not getting younger. The crown would have to replace him eventually. Some reduction of his work time would be a good start. He would figure it out.

If he survived Sherlock's enthusiasm, that is. He laughed when his midst was squeezed so hard that he could hardly breathe.

Yes. He would find it out how to spend as much time as possible with his wondrous brother and his peculiar pet. His family. This place felt like home already. A memory of the past, turned into a haven for the presence. They could work on the house. They could replace some of the furniture. There could be a gym. He could work in the garden. Suddenly the future seemed so much brighter – a future with the man he loved in Grandmother’s house.

The End


End file.
